I'm on a B road heading for the seaTo see if hands across the ocean'll shake or waveThrough the whiplash of the windscreen wipersI can see for miles but all I do is watch the timeAt the driver's hands

He harbours thoughts on personal griefI said " Your hardship's only one of a fleet that didn't go down well."

Listen son, if you'd spent your life in the last laneYou'd have an accent to grindPunch-drunk on patriotismBlind-drunk on borderismMaybe I should drive

While you're cast away the mice'll playThey'll have a license to dog those left back homeYeah, and what about those poor souls?

Listen son, if you'd spent your life in the last laneYou'd have an accent to grindPunch-drunk on patriotismBlind-drunk on borderismMaybe I should drive

As I jumped to these conclusionsHe thumped his feet on the brakesBut we still hit a songwriter trudging through the rain

Scrambled out and watched him rest in piecesSaid a prayer and rifled through his pocketAnd the side of his mouth still had something to say" At the toss of a coinI end up head in the dirt and tail in the airAnd yet you can dance awayBut be it friend or hard-up manFellow or kinWhen your chips are down, they're down for good."